Pages

Friday, January 23, 2015

Blog tour for Just the Way You Aren’t by Lynda Simmons #giveaway

Welcome to our stop on the Just the Way You Aren't blog tour.

Just the Way You Aren’t

by Lynda
Simmons

What
happens when an everyday Cinderella makes a play for the prince?

A
moment of madness. That’s all muralist Sunny Anderson expected when she donned
a glittering mask and a fabulous gown to crash the gala at Manhattan’s newest
boutique hotel. Project manager Michael Wolfe has no idea that the beauty
staring up at the mural on the ballroom ceiling is also the artist who painted
it. He’s captivated and she’s willing, but when their moment of madness on the
sofa in his suite comes to an abrupt end, his princess is off and running,
leaving nothing behind but a pair of earrings. He’s determined to find her
again, but all he has to do is look closer at the woman painting the mural in
his office to see that the one he needs is standing right in front of him.

The Calico twins
say, “Told you so,” and dash to the window, squeezing in on Old Tom’s left
while Lola makes room for herself on his right.

I stay where I am, stretched out under a chair with
Boots and Annie. We planned to remain calm, hope for nothing. But Boots’ head
is up, Annie’s tail is twitching and I hear myself asking, “What’s he doing?”

“Tapping on the kitchen window.” Fluffy looks down at
me. “And the neighbour is at her sink.”

“Is the orange cat
out there?” Annie asks.

“Not that I see.”
Lola looks over at her. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

I have to say,
things have been much calmer around here since we found Bernard’s stash of
food. Full stomachs will do that, I suppose. Tom apologized for his blind
obedience to Mr. Large and in Charge as Scruffy liked to call him, but it still
bothers me that none of us had any trouble eating even after we found the
little guy’s body in Bernard’s room. I guess the instinct to survive is
stronger than the need to grieve.

Bernard is downstairs, yowling in the laundry room,
the only door he can’t open. We weren’t easy on him but he’s still walking. A
few wanted to starve him the way he tried to starve Boots and me, but as Fluffy
said, if we resist revenge, we can leave with a clear conscience one day.

She looks down at me again. “The neighbour sees the
bird!”

I know she’s trying to get me to come up there, and
I’m tempted more by the light in her eyes than by what’s going on outside. But
Boots was here long before me, and even if he wasn’t who knows where we’ll end
up if that bird makes this work. No point making everything harder.

Lola perks up. “Neighbour’s coming outside. This could
be it.”

Annie heads for the door. “Boots, come with me.
Somebody holler when she’s on her way to the front door.”

“Newcomer, what is wrong with you?” Lola asks. “All of
this is happening because you insisted on getting the window open. So why
aren’t you up here watching?”

Because I’m an idiot.

I jump up on the window, Fluffy purrs and I wish we’d
met sooner, or maybe later.

The bunch of them take off for the stairs, hollering,
“she’s coming, she’s coming,” to Annie and Boots.

“We should stay put,” Fluffy says.

I lean closer. “In case the neighbour comes back.”

She purrs louder.
“Or the orange cat shows up.”

“Or –“

“Neighbour’s at the door,” Lola hollers up to us.
“She’s looking through the glass. . . she’s spotted Ophelia’s body. . . hand
goes to the mouth. . . and bingo, she is on the phone! Rescue is imminent!”

“Along with the cages,” Fluffy whispers.

“Unfortunately.”

“Unless we go out the window.”

“Sadly, there’s
no way down.”

“There are bushes in front of that kitchen window.
It’s worth a try.” She puts her forehead
next to mine. “What do say? Cages or bushes?”

The next thing I know, there are sirens outside. Someone
says, “No one’s seen her in over a week,” whatever that is, and we are clawing
at the screen.

“What’s going on?” Annie asks from the door.

“We’re making a run for it,” Fluffy says.

“I’m coming too,” Lola says. “Let me at the screen.”

Her claws are powerful and that screen is shredded
before the police pull up out front.

The neighbour is heading back to her side door with
the bird on her shoulder. I lean out through the screen. The bushes look farther
away than I thought.

“What are they doing?” Boots asks.

“Running away,” the Calico twins say. “Isn’t it
romantic?”

“Come with us,” Fluffy says to Boots.

“You know me and heights. But you go.”

The front door crashes open.

Trucks pull into the curb.

People with cages pour out.

“Animal control,” I tell Fluffy.

The twins dash into the hall. “We’ll hold them off.”

The neighbour spots me at the window. Glances over at
the trucks. I’m sure she’ll call for them, but she holds out her arms instead.
“Come on, sweetie. I’ll catch you.”

“Let me go first,” Fluffy says and turns to Annie.
“Come with us.”

Heavy footsteps in the foyer. A voice saying, “I’ve got an old cat here.
You see what’s upstairs.”

The bird lands on her shoulder again. It’s like a
Disney movie only it’s real, and that door is waiting.

I hear Old Tom being loaded into a truck, the Calico
twins negotiating with a driver and it sounds like they’ve located Bernard.
Annie and Boots are nowhere to be seen.

“Three cats,” the neighbour says as she closes the
door behind us. “Does this make me a Crazy Cat Lady?”

“Nope.” Lola rubs against her legs. “But it’s a
start.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Excerpt:

Sunny’s feet moved of their own accord and she stared
straight ahead, horrified and thrilled at the same time. Wondering what she was
playing at and not at all surprised when he fell into step beside her.

This was why she wasn’t ready to leave, she realized. She
was enjoying herself too much. Enjoying the fact that as Sonja she could do
anything or say anything. Be shocking and sexy, and make Michael Wolfe sit up
and take notice.

She glanced over at him as they walked, feeling beauti­ful,
powerful, but most of all desirable. Because if that wasn’t hunger she saw in
those dark eyes, then she’d been out of circulation for far too long.

Which was a distinct possibility given that her last sexual
encounter had been almost a year ago in the back of Vince Cerqua’s convertible
when the top wasn’t the only thing that wouldn’t go up. She’d spent the drive
home assuring him that it happened to men all the time; at least that was what
she heard in the tearoom.

She felt her face warm, knowing instinctively that Michael’s
top would never let him down. Not that she wanted to find out. Not really. Not
now, at any rate.

“Where will you be going in the morning?” he asked.

“New Jersey.”

He drew his head back and she laughed. “There’s a theater
group I’m rather fond of. After that, it’s anyone’s guess. I’m just a wanderer.
Never in one place long enough to plant a garden as they say.”

“Is that what you’d like to do? Plant a garden?”

“Yes,” she said, slipping in a touch of Sunny, but staying
true to Sonja. “Of course, with so many emerging artists, I’m not thinking
about that right now.”

He stopped and took her hand. “What are you thinking about?”

Trouble. And sex. Mostly sex. For all the good it did her.

Truth to tell, Sunny wasn’t the kind to have a one-night
stand. She was conservative in her thinking and cautious when it came to
matters of the heart. She was the kind who delivered hampers at Christmas,
painted faces at the community center on Halloween, and made sure her
organ-donor card was signed. No question about it, she was Sunny the good:
Balanced. Friendly. And utterly predictable.

But Sonja? Now there was a real vixen. A woman who traveled
the world, took risks every day, and was never, ever predictable. It seemed a
shame to make her leave the ball so early when she was only in town for one
night. And Sunny had the rest of her life to spend being good.

Michael ran his thumb across hers and the pull was stron­ger
than ever, bringing her back a step. After all, it wasn’t as though he was a
total stranger, some masked man she picked up at the sushi bar. This was
Michael Wolfe, Beast of Brighton, Terror of the Tradesmen. And she already knew
he looked good without a shirt.

Maybe Hugh was right. Maybe a moment of madness was good for
the soul.

The music changed again, the singer launching into a slow,
sultry torch song that begged an answer to the question women had been asking
for centuries: what is it with men and commitment?

Sunny had wrestled with that issue herself for years,
convinced that the boy she’d loved too much would come back for her one day.
Pale and contrite, wanting nothing more than to love her the way he should have
all along. But commitment wasn’t on her mind at all when she twined her fingers
with Michael’s and gave him Sonja’s best come-hither smile. “I’m thinking we
should go to your place,” she said, and was sure she was floating as they headed
for the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

AUTHOR Bio and Links:

Lynda Simmons is a writer by day, college instructor by night and
a late sleeper on weekends. She grew up in Toronto reading Greek mythology,
bringing home stray cats and making up stories about bodies in the basement.
From an early age, her family knew she would either end up as a writer or the
old lady with a hundred cats. As luck would have it, she married a man with
allergies so writing it was.

With two daughters to raise, Lynda and her husband moved into a
lovely two storey mortgage in Burlington, a small city on the water just
outside Toronto. While the girls are grown and gone, Lynda and her husband are
still there. And yes, there is a cat - a beautiful, if spoiled, Birman.

When she's not writing or teaching, Lynda gives serious thought to
using the treadmill in her basement. Fortunately, she's found that if she waits
long enough, something urgent will pop up and save her - like a phone call or
an e-mail or a whistling kettle. Or even that cat just looking for a little
more attention!